


You'll be my resolution

by Jmeelee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, Holidays, M/M, Minor Violence, Misunderstandings, Mutual Masturbation, New Year's Resolutions, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-21 01:17:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16149509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: “Stiles, is it true you got kicked out of the community center yesterday?” His father asks him the following morning.  He’s standing at Stiles’ apartment door, eyes tired above puffy, bruised skin. He’d worked the night shift, and word travels fast.“Yup,” Stiles admits.The Sheriff levels a look at Stiles, one he hasn’t seen since he was a teenager running around at all hours of the night chasing the supernatural.  “Now, dare I ask why you got kicked out?”“I was trying to help Derek Hale.”“Help him?”“Yeah, it’s my New Year’s resolution.”His father rolls his eyes.  “Well, that sounds like it will end in disaster.  Good luck.”





	You'll be my resolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Delightful_I_Am](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delightful_I_Am/gifts).



> For Delightful_I_am, who leaves me the nicest comments. Their favorite sterek troupe is Stiles helping Derek (esp when Derek doesn't know)... so here you go! I hope you enjoy <3

 

**New Year’s**

 

The jaunty, whimsical tone of an incoming skype call chimes from his laptop on the nightstand, waking Stiles from a dead sleep.  He contemplates ignoring it completely, but there is only one person who skypes him. Lydia. If he doesn’t answer, he won’t talk to her for another week.

 

He stumbles out of bed and grabs the computer, dragging it back to his blanket nest and tapping the green video button.  Lydia’s face pops up, fresh and fabulous and basically everything Stiles isn’t at (he glances at the digital clock and  _ holy shit _ ) 7:17am.

 

“Happy New Year!” she chirps, smile bright and blinding in the jarring light of the computer screen.

 

“Ewwwww,” Stiles replies, fighting to keep his eyes open.  “You’re calling  _ so _ early.  Why do you hate me?”

 

“Stiles, I’m about to go to bed. My day is over.”  Lydia is on sabbatical from her teaching job at Stanford, studying in Kensington, Australia at the University of New South Wales.  “So how was your New Year’s Eve? What’s your resolution?”

 

“To never drink again,” he tells her, pulling the bed sheet over his head like a babushka’s headscarf.

 

She laughs at his misery.  He expects nothing less. “Maybe pick a resolution you won’t break by the coming weekend.”

 

He hums.  “Fine. My resolution is to win back your love,” he teases.  “I’ll woo you via gifts sent by fedex.” It’s two years since they called it quits on their relationship; joking about it has finally stopped feeling like a knife to the gut.

 

“Well, that’s dumb,” she retorts.  “You’ll always have my love. But I do enjoy getting packages.”

 

Stiles groans.  “Lydia, it’s too early for this mushy crap and my head hurts.”  He flops back down on his pillow, leaving the laptop a warm weight on his stomach. 

 

“My resolution is to try surfing,” she informs him.  “I bought a wetsuit today.”

 

“Hot,” he mumbles off-screen.  “Don’t get eaten by a shark.”

 

“I’ll try not to,” she snarks.  “Did you seriously not make a resolution?  Come on, Stiles, don’t be lame. Why don’t you do community service or something?  Make the world a better place?”

 

“My dad’s the hero of the community.  I wouldn't want to usurp his glory by like, saving a baby from a burning building or something.”

 

“Why don’t you volunteer at the community center with Derek?”

 

At first, the statement doesn’t compute; there’s a glitch in the connection between his brain and ears.  He could’ve sworn Lydia said Derek Hale—surly, short-tempered, lone wolf Derek Hale—volunteers at the community center.    

 

He laughs.  “Good one, Lydia.  Pull my other leg too.”

 

“Stiles,” she admonishes.  “I’m serious. You should work with Derek and the kids at the community center.  He’s a mentor.”

 

The mental image of Derek working with children freezes his whole system.  He shoots up in bed and is greeted by Lydia’s stern expression. 

 

“Wait… Derek does  _ what _ ?”     

 

***

 

“Did you know Derek volunteer’s at the community center?” Stiles inquires at the diner that afternoon as he, Scott, and Malia enjoy a brunch so late it might as well be dinner.  

 

“Sure,” Scott says around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.  “He’s been running the boys and girls club there for about a year.”  Scott attempts to pilfer a sausage off Malia’s plate, and she stabs him with her fork.  

 

“I’m the only person to not know this?” Stiles laments, watching the creamer disperse into his coffee as Scott hides his rapidly healing wound under the table.  

 

“You’re pretty self-absorbed,” Malia, ever the most brutally honest pack member, tells him.  “Are you going to eat anymore of your pancake?”

 

Stiles passes her his plate.  

 

“Why do you care what Derek does with his free time?” Scott asks, sitting back and patting his full stomach.  Stiles has it on good authority that, despite the amount of food he put away, Scott will be starving in an hour and a half.  Damn werewolf metabolism.

 

“I’m surprised, is all.  Derek is so… Derek, you know?”  Scott nods in solidarity.

 

“He volunteer’s on Tuesday and Thursday,” Malia informs him, polishing off the last bite of Stiles’ breakfast.  

 

At dusk, Stiles drives through the housing development now standing where the Hale House used to be.  Ten large houses butt up to the woods of the preserve, their windows emitting a soft yellow light in the gathering dark.  He puts his car in park at the end of the street, letting it idle with the heat blasting, and thinks about Derek, which is something he hardly ever allows himself to do.

 

He and Derek are combative opposites who somehow sync up like clockwork.  Their entire friendship, if it can be called that, is an endless round of saving each other’s asses and chewing each other out.  Derek calls Stiles on his bullshit, and Stiles refuses to cut Derek a break. But now, sitting here looking at the row of pristine mailboxes lining the curb, the contemporary architecture and high-end vehicles sitting in the driveways, he wonders if Derek is trying to fill a huge, gaping void inside himself, the same void Stiles tries to fill by obsessing over his father’s health and throwing himself into werewolf pack politics.  His conflicting feelings for Derek— and  _ yes _ , he’ll admit there’s attraction, too—have always been messy, and even the best people have a tendency to turn their backs when a situation is messy.   Stiles is far from the best kind of person. 

 

Malia is right; he is self-absorbed.  But no more. 

 

He pulls out his cell and calls Lydia.  “This better be worth the international calling fee, Stiles.” Stiles can hear her eyes rolling from twelve thousand miles away 

 

“I know what my resolution is,” he tell her.  “Derek Hale.”

 

She laughs and hangs up on him.  

 

**Three Kings Day**

 

His plan is vague at best, but that’s never stopped him before.  Tuesday afternoon of the following week Stiles waltzes into the Beacon Hills Community Center, side-steps an ancient man playing pool in the rec center, and makes his way past the library return bin toward the open gym.  There, he finds Derek playing basketball with a dozen ten-year-olds.

 

Stiles has it in his head he’s going to covertly help Derek fill the empty space in his heart left behind by the death of his family, his demolished house, his crazy uncle, and a sister over a thousand miles away,  It’s a  _ lot _ , and Stiles honestly has no idea where to start, but if this place means something to Derek, has given him some semblance of solace, Stiles wants to contribute too. 

 

He plans to surreptitiously watch from the sidelines, which is stupid because stealth is not his thing and Derek is a werewolf who probably detected his heartbeat as soon as he entered the building. 

 

Derek gently directs the kids to keep playing in his absence, and jogs over to Stiles.  “What is it? What’s wrong?” His green eyes are wild, checking Stiles over for blood or wounds, the shift rippling under his skin.

 

“Shit, calm down,” Stiles whispers.  “Nothing is wrong, jeez.” There’s a peculiar feeling in his stomach from seeing Derek with children.  It’s short circuiting his brain. 

 

“Then why are you here?”  Stiles wonders which relative Derek and Malia inherited their bluntness from.  

 

“I, um, I heard you volunteer here.  I came to help.”

 

Derek’s eyebrows climb his forehead like monkeys. “Absolutely not.”

 

Like Stiles said, his and Derek’s relationship is a merry-go-round of fighting and hostile acceptance.  Helping Derek is going to be a battle.

 

“Uh, yeah actually, I can.  Last I checked, no one says no to free labor.”  Stiles digs in his heals, folding sinewy arms across his chest.

 

“Go home, Stiles.  Quit messing around.”  The sound of bouncing rubber comes to a halt, as all the kids turn to stare at them.  

 

Now Stiles is pissed. “I came to help out.”  His voice is steadily rising. “Don’t be a jerk, Derek.”

 

“ _ You’re _ the jerk, interrupting our game for no reason, making me think something was wrong.”

 

“I did not!” Stiles yells.  “I wanted to help!” He and Derek are broken records, stuck on a loop of ugly noise. “You’re the one jumping to conclusions.”

 

“Well what the hell am I supposed to think, when you show up here when you never have before?”

 

“It’s a public place!  You don’t own it, asshole!”   _ Oh shit. _  Some of the children cover their mouths at the foul language.  They don’t cover their ears or eyes Stiles notes; they don’t want to miss any of the drama.

 

The old dude who’d been playing pool storms over, waving his stick in what Stiles thinks is supposed to be a threatening manner.  “Young man, this is a family friendly place, and that language will not be tolerated. Neither will the harassment of our volunteer staff.  I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

 

Stiles glares at Derek, who looks a little shell shocked at how fast the situation spiraled out of control.  He shouldn’t be; this is par for the course with them. He’s an idiot for trying to be nice to Derek, who’s prickly at best, and a total shithead at worst.  “Fine, forget it. I’m out of here.”

 

Lydia was right.  He should have picked a resolution he could have kept at least until the weekend. 

  
  


***

 

“Stiles, is it true you got kicked out of the community center yesterday?” His father asks him the following morning.  He’s standing at Stiles’ apartment door, eyes tired above puffy, bruised skin. He’d worked the night shift, and word travels fast.

 

“Yup,” Stiles admits.  “Want to come in for breakfast?”  Stiles points to his shitty kitchen table, glass of orange juice and cereal bowl laid on top.

 

“I’m amazed that table can hold so much weight,” the Sheriff scoffs.  

 

“Don’t hate.  It cost me six dollars at a yard sale.”

 

“It shows.”  He levels a  _ look _ at Stiles, one he hasn’t seen since he was a teenager running around at all hours of the night chasing the supernatural.  “Now, dare I ask why you got kicked out?”

 

“I was trying to help Derek Hale.”

 

“Help him?”  

 

“Yeah, it’s my New Year’s resolution.”

 

His father rolls his eyes.  “Well, that sounds like it will end in disaster.  Good luck.” His father salutes him. “I’m going home to bed.”

 

Derek calls a few days later with a semi-apology, and they talk it out.  “So you want to...what? Work with the kids?”

 

“Sure.  Or, you know, whatever.  I’ll do anything I can to help out.  It’s a good cause, and it means something to you.”

 

Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever heard Derek sound so confused in his life.  “All right, well, I’ll ask around. See when we might need some extra assistance.”  

 

It doesn’t sound promising, but at least Stiles tried. 

 

**Valentine’s Day**

 

A few weeks later he makes his second attempt, sending Derek an anonymous valentine through the mail.  He doesn’t write a return address, and drives two towns over to mail it. 

 

Derek calls him on February fourteenth.  “Why did you send me a Valentine, Stiles?”

 

“Whaaaaaat?  It wasn’t me.”  The Valentine was homemade, containing an original poem.   _ Roses are red, violets are purple not blue, there’s a wolf in my heart, and it’s howling for you. _

 

“I can smell you on it,” Derek says, because Derek is a werewolf and a weirdo and that’s something only weirdos and werewolves say.  “And even if I couldn’t smell you, it looks like a five-year-old made it, so it’s obviously from you. Are you fucking with me, or something?”

 

_ Wow _ .  Rude.

 

“I thought it would make you laugh,” Stiles says, and there must be something Derek hears in his tone because he immediately loses the defensive edge to his voice.

 

“I mean… I guess it’s kind of funny?” Derek relents.

 

“I wrote the poem myself, you know.” 

 

“Gee, I’d never have guessed.”  Derek is the king of deadpan delivery. 

 

“So, did it at least make you smile?”  Derek Hale needs to smile more, Stiles has decided.  A happy Derek makes the world a better place. If he can’t help him out at the community center, perhaps Stiles can brighten Derek’s day in other little ways. 

 

“If I say yes, will you promise to  _ never  _ send me a homemade Valentine ever again?”

 

Stiles does a great imitation of a werewolf howl, and to his utter delight, Derek actually laughs. 

 

**Easter**

 

At the end of a pack meeting in April, Derek cautiously approaches Stiles as he’s lounging on the leather sofa in Scott’s living room.   “So, you’re serious about volunteering at the community center? If so, I can use you next weekend.”

 

Stiles perks up.  “Yeah, dude! I’m totally game.  What is it?” 

 

“The food pantry is delivering food and Easter baskets on Saturday.  It’ll be an early start, and probably go until about 3pm. I can pick you up and you can help me make the deliveries.”

 

“Absolutely!  Sounds great.”

 

Derek eyes him suspiciously.  It’s the exact same expression Stiles once observed Derek give a manticore he found hiding in the preserve the summer the Beacon Hills housecat population decreased by fifty percent, and it’s totally uncalled for.   

 

Saturday morning they’re on the road by 8am with a trunk full of non-perishable food items, Easter baskets exploding with candy and iridescent plastic grass, and enough pastel-dyed hard-boiled eggs to feed an army.  

 

They unbuckle their seatbelts at the first delivery stop, and Derek clears his throat.  “Listen…”

 

“If you’re about to warn me about the unfortunate  circumstances some of the people live in, you can save your breath.  I’m the sheriff's son; I’ve seen a lot of shit. This isn’t my first rodeo with the food pantry.”

 

Derek nods,  “Okay then, let’s do this.”

 

And it all goes smoothly, until their fourth delivery.

 

They pull up to a row of tiny, dilapidated houses, paper trash littering their bare earth yards.  Stiles can’t help but think this neighborhood is the polar opposite of the one now standing on the foundation of the Hale House.   

 

Two mangy dogs are sleeping in a dried up flower bed, and a gaggle of gaunt children, shy and standoffish, shuffle closer to them when they pop the trunk.  The children dig into the candy baskets and the hard-boiled eggs with equal fever. Watching their faces as they peel off the colored shells with grimy fingers, Stiles gets  _ why _ Derek does this, how important it is, and maybe a little part of him does it  _ because _ this place is the furthest he can get from the posh neighborhood now claiming his land.

 

He glances over at Derek, who is unwrapping a chocolate bunny and speaking softly to a little girl, about four years old, with dark brown curls.  Derek catches his eye over the rabbit’s crinkly cellophane, and Stiles feels his heart flutter dangerously in his chest. Derek raises on eyebrow in silent question at the rapid tempo he can detect with his super hearing.

 

He’s so busy locking eyes with Derek that when the door of one of the dilapidated houses bangs open, Stiles startles so badly he drops the entire basket of eggs on the ground.  The dogs and children scatter like cockroaches when a light switch is flipped.

 

A burly, pot-bellied man stumbles down the concrete steps of the home and into the yard where Stiles and Derek stand, cut-off jeans hanging open under his hairy gut.  He’s huge, with greasy brown hair and a booming voice slurring curses at Stiles and Derek. Behind him, cowering in the darkened doorway, is a blonde woman with a black eye.

 

“Get out of here you hypocrites!  No one wants your shitty handout!”  The man is stumbling drunkenly toward Derek and the little girl.  Derek pushes her toward one of the houses. He’s more than capable of defending himself, but Stiles doesn’t want them to come to blows.

 

Stiles leans down and grabs two hard-boiled eggs from the patchy grass.  “Hey! Douchebag!” Stiles really needs to stop using foul language around children.  “Over here!” Stiles has a mean arm and accurate aim, honed by years of lacrosse practices that never got him any action on the field.  He draws back like a Major League Baseball player and hits the man in the chest with a teal egg. The man stops, staring woozily at Stiles, who’s drawing back another egg—bright yellow, with a smiley face painted on one side— just in case.

 

“Whadtha hell?  I’m gonna to kick all your asses.”

 

The egg hits him square between the eyes.

 

If he hadn’t been drunk as a skunk, it might not have phased him at all, but both the throw and the egg are  _ hard _ , and the man’s eyes roll up in his head as he topples over.  The whole scene is over in less than thirty seconds, but Stiles can already hear the wail of a police siren in the distance.  

 

Neighbors venture onto their porches to watch the spectacle, and Stiles sees the curly-haired little girl sitting on the steps, biting the head off her chocolate rabbit, completely unfazed.

 

Derek comes to stand next to him as Stiles’ Dad pulls into the yard with the lights flashing.  “Your boss at the community center is going to be so pissed, isn’t he?” Stiles asks.

 

The Sheriff and Deputy Parrish handcuff the unconscious guy and haul him into the back of the squad car.  Derek watches them in silence, but places a comforting hand on Stiles’ shoulder. 

 

“Let me guess,” his father says.  “You’re here to  _ help _ ?”

 

***

 

That night, while he’s lying in bed unable to sleep, Stiles keeps seeing the little girl on the porch steps, munching calmly on her chocolate as violence and chaos reign around her.  What must her daily life be like, if Stiles knocking a drunk, belligerent man unconscious didn’t garner a reaction? What must Derek’s memories be like, if he’d rather be surrounded by sadness and violence than be alone?

 

His cheeks are wet when he places the cell phone up to his ear. 

 

“What is it now?  Did you and Derek stop a bank robber?  Save a baby from a burning building? You know you don’t actually wear a badge, right son?”

 

Stiles laughs wetly into the receiver.  “I told Lydia you’d say that.”

 

His father can hear the emotion in his voice.  “What is it?” Stiles tells him about the little girl, about the hole in Derek’s heart where his family used to be, how Stiles wants to bring Derek a taste of joy, but he keeps serving him scraps instead.  “You know, Stiles. Sometimes we can’t fully help others until we help ourselves. If you ask me, which I’m assuming you are since you called me at 11:30 at night, Derek isn’t the only one who’s a little adrift.  Why don’t you focus on making a positive change for  _ yourself _ ?  Helping Derek might be a little easier, afterwards.”

 

“What should I do?”

 

“Why don’t you finally put your FBI training, criminal justice degree and fabulous aim to good use?  There’s an opening at the precinct coming up in the fall.”

 

Stiles is flabbergasted.  “You’d want me to work with you?”

 

“Son, I’d be honored.”

  
  


**Mother’s Day**

 

Mother’s Day rolls around, and Stiles isn’t proud to admit it but he doesn’t have it in him to try to be of any help to Derek on this lonesome, melancholy holiday.  When he brings flowers to the cemetery later that evening, he pulls a few colorful buds out of the bouquet and kneels in front of the Hale family plot, placing them gently in front of Talia’s headstone.  

 

“I’m trying to take care of him,” he whispers.  It isn’t much, and Derek will never know, but it will have to be enough for now.

  
  


**Independence Day**

 

Derek swings open the front door right as Stiles shows up on Derek’s doorstep on the Fourth of July, bearing a red, white and blue cake topped with unlit sparklers.

 

Derek looks longingly at the cake but stoically says, “Sorry Stiles, not tonight.”

 

“But, but, but… I made a cake!  Technically I made  _ three _ cakes and  _ assembled _ them. I’m like  _ The Avengers _ … of cake!”  Stiles watches Derek lock the door behind him.  

 

“I can’t.  I won’t be good company, and your cake deserves to go somewhere it will be properly appreciated.”

 

It’s none of his business, but Stiles is a pusher.  “Where are you going? A party?”

 

Derek scoffs.  “Nah. I’m heading to the diner downtown.”

 

“You know every pack member is grilling tonight?  If you want a crappy burger, we can stop by any of their houses.”  A terrible thought dawns on Stiles. “Oh, unless you’re meeting someone?”

 

Derek leans back against the locked door.  “Stiles, I’m not meeting anyone.” Relief washes over him, and guilt quickly follows.  “I  _ really _ dislike this holiday.”

 

“You hate freedom?”

 

Derek laughs.  “If I tell you, and you make a shitty dog joke, I’ll rip your throat out.”  Stiles crosses his heart, eyes comically wide. “I hate fireworks. It’s the noise and the... smell.”

 

Someone is reaching into Stiles chest, tightening a vice grip on his heart.  It hurts to breathe. “I understand. Can I keep you company at the diner, at least?”

 

They share burgers, fries and black and white milkshakes, and Stiles follows Derek home, where they demolish the cake and watch a cheesy horror movie on Netflix.  Around 11pm one of Derek’s neighbors sets off a series of small fireworks. Stiles doesn’t comment, but he presses his thigh against Derek’s on the couch.

 

From then on, they spend a  _ lot _ more time together.

 

**Labor Day**

 

Stiles’ dad has planted himself conspicuously next to the grill, chatting up Melissa and Chris Argent as he watches Liam season the steaks.  Stiles is wise to his game, and gives him the stink eye. 

 

“You and Derek hung out a lot this summer,” Scott says casually, handing Stiles a beer and pulling his attention away from his defiant father. 

 

“Yeah, man.  Derek’s cool.”  Since Independence Day, he and Derek have hung out at least once a week.  They grab dinner, see movies, or chill at their respective apartments. 

 

“Is there something else going on?” Scott inquires, searching Stiles’ face.  They’ve been friends since boyhood; Stiles is an open book to Scott at this point in their lives.  

 

“We’re friends,” he replies.  “Derek needed a friend.” 

 

Scott squints at him, glances around the BBQ to make sure no one is paying attention to their conversation .  “Are you  _ sure _ this is a good idea?  I mean, you guys have been kind of…  _ touchy _ .”

 

And Scott’s not wrong.  Not only have he and Derek become friends, Derek is treating Stiles like an official pack member, placing a gentle hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, pressing a leg against his under restaurant tables, bumping shoulders as they walk down the street.  Take  _ that _ , Lydia!  Stiles has made so much headway in his resolution it's ridiculous.

 

Derek walks into the backyard, holding a casserole dish.  His eyes seek out Stiles before he greets anyone. Stiles winks at him when they make eye contact.  “It’s a great plan, Scott, don’t worry. What could possibly go wrong?”

**Halloween**

 

“I have a  _ fang-tactic _ idea!” Stiles yells into the receiver.  

 

“Whatever it is, my answer is no,” Derek replies.

 

“Hear me out, Derek!  Get this… matching Halloween costumes!  I’ll be Ernie, you be Bert! You already have the eye brows for it.”

 

“Fuck you, Stiles.”  Derek hangs up, but Stiles can hear the laughter in his voice.

 

**Thanksgiving**

 

Christmas is for family, the pack has decided, so they commandeer Thanksgiving as “Friends-giving” and slap together a feast large enough to feed a dozen werewolves.  Stiles can’t remember if Derek likes apple or pumpkin or pecan pie, so he makes all three. 

 

They continue their cheesy tradition of going around the dinner table and telling everyone what they are thankful for.  It’s more an excuse to toast the speaker and drink copious amounts of wine than anything else, but Stiles has grown sentimental as the years go by, and he secretly enjoys it.

 

Everyone says the same generic thing; they’re thankful for friends, family, pack, good health, peace.  Stiles is grateful for his new job on the force, which allows him to monitor his father’s healthy meals and make a difference in people’s lives.  Everyone’s thankful Lydia is back home in the states. But then it’s Derek’s turn.

 

He raises his wine glass and they all follow suit.  “I’m thankful for my friendship with Stiles.” Everyone awkwardly stares at each other, stunned at the sentiment.  

 

Before the silence can become awkward, Stiles reaches across the table, clinks his glass to Derek’s with a small, private smile.  “I’ll drink to that.” 

 

It’s sweet and thoughtful and totally out of character for Derek to express emotion, especially in front of others.  Stiles is elated, honestly, but something in his chest goes tight, too. Derek said  _ friendship _ .  It was a rocky road getting here but his resolution  _ worked _ ; he and Derek are friends, Derek is happier, less lonely.  Lydia had suggested he make the world a better place, and  _ Stiles _ ’ world is better and brighter than ever, now Derek’s an integral part of it.  Stiles won against the odds, even if he was the only one betting. 

 

So why does the word  _ friendship  _ make him feel like he’s lost?

 

**Christmas Eve**

 

They’re sitting in the diner—at the booth that has become  _ theirs _ since the Fourth of July, legs tangled comfortably together.

 

“My mom tried so hard to make my birthday special,” Derek tells him, between bites of French silk pie.  “We celebrated Christmas on the twenty-fourth so I could have the twenty-fifth as  _ my _ day.  My dad would move the tree into the garage, but we’d pull it back out in the twenty-sixth.  I was fortunate,” Derek proclaims. “I miss them.”

 

Stiles pushes crumbs along his plate, smiling softly at Derek.  “I wish you’d have told me earlier. We could have done a special Christmas celebration, instead of a birthday one.  Ugly sweaters, Santa hats, the whole nine yards.” 

 

Derek shrugs.  “You have Christmas with your father tomorrow.  Besides, this is perfect.”

 

Stiles doesn’t hesitate.  He reaches out, placing his hand over Derek’s, marveling over how easy, how  _ natural _ it feels to touch Derek.

 

And since Thanksgiving, Stiles has been  _ looking _ at Derek too, lingering glances and subtle states that aren't going unnoticed, like the one they’re sharing now.  It’s  _ charged.  _ Stiles bites his lip.

 

“Enjoy your night, boys,” their waitress sings when she drops off their check, startling them from their trance.  

 

The walk back to Stiles’ apartment is relatively quiet except for the sounds of Stiles fiddling with his jacket zipper.  They bump hips and shoulders as they walk, dodging puddles from an earlier rainstorm. If Stiles were a braver man, he’d take Derek’s hand.

 

They’re walking up the steps to Stiles apartment building, and while they’ve made no concrete plans, this is where Stiles would normally invite Derek in to watch a movie or hang out and have a drink.  But this time, when Stiles pulls out the key to the entrance door and says, “Do you want to come in?” The question is locked and loaded.

 

Derek pulls the trigger without hesitation.  “I’d love to.” Stiles’ hands shake as he turns, inserts the key into the lock.

 

Derek steps up behind Stiles, places warm hands on Stiles hips, making him shiver in the chilly night air.  Stiles leans back against Derek, seeking his body heat, loving the way Derek is burning him up inside and out.  He tilts his head back onto Derek’s shoulder, exposing his neck, and the tip of Derek’s nose runs lightly along the tendon on the side of his throat. 

 

They spill into the entranceway, turning toward each other in desperation.  When they kiss, Stiles thinks he will combust. Surely, nothing in the world should feel so divine.  Derek’s lips are slick and pink, and he’s chanting Stiles’ name against his mouth over and over again as they fumble down the hall and through Stiles’ apartment door.

 

The front door slams behind them with a reverberating crack as Derek roughly pushes Stiles toward the bedroom. The toe of Stiles’ shoe catches the corner of the throw rug in front of the couch, and sends him crashing down onto one knee, but he bounds back to his feet in a spectacular show of flailing limbs.

 

“Impressive,” Derek tells him, taking ahold of his arm under the elbow, acting as ballast while they steer their way through the kitchen toward Stiles’ tiny bedroom.  

 

“I’ll show you  _ impressive _ ,” Stiles growls, bumping hard into his wobbly, six dollar kitchen table.  It bangs against the wall. “Oops.”

 

They make it as far as the kitchen counter, Derek bracketing his arms around Stiles on both sides as Stiles struggles to get both their jeans unbuttoned and down their legs.  Derek’s pants are so tight, Stiles gives up at mid thigh. “Wait, we need something,” Stiles gasps as he pushes his underwear below his balls. His fingers scrambles over the Formica countertop and grab a glass jar of coconut oil.

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Derek’s laughter carries through the whole apartment. 

 

“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?” Stiles growls.  Shirts are pushed aside in haste, bunching up under their armpits before they go flying to opposite ends of the kitchen.  Stiles reaches into the jar and scoops out an overabundance of the oil, already melted from the heat in the kitchen. He slathers both their cocks, excess oil dripping down his wrist and forearm.  He lines them up, takes them both in his slick hand.

 

Derek grunts at the first slick slide of Stiles’ palm, thrusting shallowly against the tight grip and the warm skin of Stiles’ cock.  The angle isn’t the best, and Stiles’ wrist is already starting to protest, but the small discomfort is all forgotten when Derek grabs him by the back of the neck, crashes their mouths together in the most searing, all-consuming kiss Stiles has ever experienced in his life.  Derek  _ devours _ him, leaving him breathless when their lips part.

 

“I want I want I want,” Derek chants, nonsensically, and battles Stiles’ hand away, fingers sliding along Stiles’ length until he’s gripping him firmly at the base and sliding his hand up, twisting his wrist just right and  _ ohhh _ .  

 

“It’s fucking  _ on _ asshole,” Stiles gasps, taking Derek in hand and then they’re furiously jerking each other off to a chorus of gasps and groans and breathless laughs between smiling kisses, fighting to see who can make the other cum first.  

 

Derek wins, but not by much.

 

“I’ll never look at a coconut oil the same way again,” Derek jokes, expression cum-drunk and happy.  He runs his clean fingers softly up and down Stiles’ spine. “Though it did work surprisingly well.” 

 

“Mmmhmm,” Stiles mummers.  “This is the best New Year’s resolution I’ve ever made.”

 

Derek’s nose scrunches up adorably.  “You’re resolution was to find more creative uses for coconut oil?”

 

“No,” Stiles laughs, brushing one more light kiss against Derek’s swollen mouth.  “It was you.”

 

The fingers on his back tense and still.  “What about me?” Derek asks, confusion clouding his features, happiness rolling away like rain drops on a window pane.

 

“Hey,” Stiles says, reaching up with his non-sticky hand, “it’s not a big deal.  You seemed like you needed some help.”

 

Derek’s hands slide to Stiles’ hips, pushing him away to arms length.  “Help with what?”

 

“You know…” Stiles gestures vaguely.  Derek apparently does  _ not _ know, because he stares blankly.  “You seemed lonely and I thought you might want some company.”

 

“Stiles, I belong to a  _ pack _ .  The same pack you belong to.  What gave you the idea I was lonely?”  Derek’s shoulders go tight and his hands drop off Stiles’ body, leaving him adrift.

 

“You volunteer at the community center.  I thought maybe you did it to fill your time because you felt… I don’t know.  Sad? You don’t have any family.” Stiles winces as soon as the words pass his lips.  

 

Derek’s face flushes.  “My pack  _ is _ my family.”

 

“I know, I know,” Stiles backtracks.  “Of course. But, you’re on your own now.  Cora lives in South America. You don’t have a job.  I thought you might need a distraction.”

 

“I’ve been on my own, one way or another, since I was sixteen, Stiles.  I can take care of myself. And the reason I volunteer at the center is because those people need assistance, and I  _ don’t _ .  I’m fortunate enough to have a trust fund, so I can afford to volunteer my time and money.  It’s not because I’m  _ lonely _ .  It’s because I’m  _ lucky _ , and I want to support others.”

 

“Derek, come on.  Don’t be mad. Scott and my dad said it was a stupid idea but last year Lydia said I should try to make the—“

 

“Lydia?!  And your father and Scott knew you were doing this, too?  I’m not your charity case,” Derek spits, pushing away from Stiles and stalking across the kitchen to retrieve his discarded shirt.  He sharply jerks it over his head, tearing a seam.

 

“I never thought you were!” Stiles shouts.

 

“Was this an act of benevolence, too?”  Derek sneers, gesturing aggressively between them.  Oh god what the hell is happening? They’ve always been like the ocean, exasperation and camaraderie ebbing and flowing like the waves.  But the tides have never shifted this fucking fast before. Stiles’ head is spinning and he can’t catch his breath. 

 

“Jesus, what?  No! No way was this—“

 

Derek stomps toward the door, face contorted, and pulls it open so hard the hinges whine in protest.  “I don’t want your pity friendship or your sympathy fuck. Take your altruism and shove it up your ass.”

 

The door slams so hard three glass balls fall off Stiles’ Christmas tree and shatter to pieces on the floor.   _ How fitting _ , he thinks, shakily kneeling down among the shards of glass. He covers his face with his hands and trembles.

 

**New Year’s Eve**

 

Stiles doesn’t have it in him to go out and party this year, but staying home alone grows tiresome by 9pm.  So he’s splayed out on the couch with the TV still blaring, long asleep, when his doorbell rings at 11:30. 

 

He sees Derek’s handsome, stoic face through the peephole and takes a deep, steadying breath.  He and Derek have somehow become a Longfellow poem; this will either end very good, or horrid. Stiles swings open the door.

 

“Were you sleeping?” Derek asks, incredulous, taking in Stile’s sleep rumpled face.  

 

“Figured this year I’d stay in, avoid the inevitable hangover.”  Stiles crosses his arms defensively. “Last year’s excessive drinking lead to some terrible decision-making, and I ended up hurting someone I care about.  So I don’t want to make the same mistake again.”

 

Derek’s shoulders slump.  “Stiles, may I come in?”

 

He’d called Derek seven times Christmas Eve, and four more Christmas Day, but Derek never answered. He’d texted on the twenty-sixth to say he needed space, and he’d contact Stiles when he had something to say.  

 

They sit at the small, rickety table with mismatched chairs in Stiles’ kitchen, the one he hasn’t bothered to move back since they knocked into it Christmas Eve. Derek wedges himself into the tight corner spot by wall.  “I came to say I’m sorry. I overreacted, and didn’t give you a chance to explain. You had only good intentions toward me.”

 

Stiles shakes his head, flopping into his seat. “You were right to be pissed.  I should have been upfront and honest. The truth is, I was the one who was lost and lonely.  I was the one who missed my mother. I projected my feelings and shortcomings onto you, which wasn’t right.  All along you’ve had your shit together. I told myself I was helping you, but the person I was helping most was me.”  He laughs, a cold, bitter sound. “Malia said I was self-absorbed. I never realized how right she was until you walked out the door last week.”

 

Derek tentatively reaches across the shabby table, grasps Stiles’ hand.  “No one has their shit together in this world, Stiles. And you  _ did _ help me.  I haven’t been this happy since before the fire.  It was a wonderful year, because of you.”

 

Stiles swallows.  “In the spirit of honestly, there’s one more thing I should probably mention.”

 

Derek’s clenches his jaw, but his grip on Stiles’ hand never falters. “Tell me.”

 

“On Thanksgiving, when you said you were thankful for my friendship, I was happy, but I was also disappointed.”  Derek’s eyebrows furrow, but Stiles charges on before he can speak. “I wanted you to say  _ love _ , not friendship, because that’s what  _ I _ feel.  I was trying so hard to give you some joy, some happiness, and instead I ended up giving you my heart.”

 

Derek’s green eye burn a hole through Stiles’ soul like concentrated fire.  In the background, the newscaster starts the countdown.

 

“ _ Fifty-nine, fifty-eight… _ ”

 

Derek’s thumb caresses the top of Stiles’ hand, a soothing back and forth motion. “I don’t do casual, Stiles.  If we’re going to do this, I’m all in,” Derek warns. 

 

“ _ Forty-two, forty-one… _ ”

 

Stiles laughs.  “When the hell have I ever been casual about anything in my whole life?”

 

“ _ Thirty-five, thirty-four… _ ”

 

“I can take care of myself, but... I’d rather we take care of each other.”

 

“ _ Twenty, nineteen… _ ” 

 

And Stiles wants a redo of last week, one that goes perfectly, because Derek deserves it, but maybe, so does he.

 

“That sounds perfect, actually.”  Stiles has the bright idea it will be terribly sexy to climb over the kitchen table and plant a kiss on Derek’s lips, sealing the deal, but Stiles Stilinski has never pulled off a sexy maneuver in his entire life.  Why should tonight be any different?

 

He hops up, and as soon as he rests his entire weight on the table, there is a terrible splintering sound, and the whole thing collapses to the floor with a loud groan, taking Stiles with it.

 

“ _ Ten, nine… _ ”

 

Stiles is sprawled on his back, winded, looking up at Derek. “You know,” he wheezes, “rumor is the person you kiss at midnight tonight is the person you’ll be with for the whole year.”  

 

Derek kneels over Stiles on the linoleum floor—and what the hell is with them and kitchen romance anyway?—cradling the back of Stiles head in his palms like Stiles is something fragile and precious.  “Well, if it means I always get to laugh this hard, receive shitty poetry for Valentine’s Day, watch you peg shitheads with Easter eggs, and dress in couples costumes for Halloween, you better kiss me at midnight for the rest of my life.”

 

“I think that can be arranged.”

 

“ _ Three, two, one… _ ”

 

“Happy New Year, Derek.”

 

“Happy New Year, Stiles.”

 

They kiss, and it’s a new day.  

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from [Matt Corby's Resolution](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nj4q4rfDcNw&start_radio=1&list=RDNj4q4rfDcNw).


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